Category: Uncategorized

I remember the first time I noticed I was stressed. I was six years old, and I was right before my first piano recital EVER in the second grade. My teacher was Mrs. Mattera, and I was one of the youngest in the recital. I had been picking/scraping at my scalp, and because of that, I had some raw patches. Since I was blonde as a little kid, it was very noticeable, and I remember my mom cajoling me with a “prize,” if I didn’t do it the week prior to the recital so my hair “wouldn’t look yucky.” How about looking at the root cause, Mother, no fucking pun intended?

Years and years passed, and I learned to resist the urge. Then after I left an abusive home situation, I started the same thing to the sensitive area behind my ears. Fortunately, at this point, I was in therapy for what happened in my childhood, and my therapist made the connection as a self-harming mechanism, much like my restricting eating (anorexia) was. I was 5’7″ and 107 lbs. At age 20, I decided I refused to restrict my eating any more. I willed myself to be better. And I was… as far as consuming calories went.

Recently, I’ve noticed the self-harming habit of picking at my cuticles creeping in. I don’t even notice it most of the time, just wake up bruised and sore. My husband notices it constantly and will swat my index fingers away from viciously picking at my thumbs. I’ll do it until I bleed.

Today I noticed my daughter watching me, and I had no idea I was picking. She gestured at my fingers, making an affirming noise, and started copying me. I cried. Please, gods, no, don’t let my sweet baby have this same bullshit. They see; they do. What a wake up call. Take care of yourself, because the best little bit of you may be watching and copying.

I used to like to think I’d reached the age where I have had enough new experiences, new friends, new places to live. I had finally started to like where I was. Re-enter my childhood boyfriend who flew 10,000 miles to see me in RI, whisked me off to Asia to get engaged, adopt a kitten, get married, buy a puppy, get pregnant, and give birth to our perfect little girl. It’s now almost three years since that first date at the Patriots game, and I am on my third continent in three years. I was sure I’d be broken-hearted to leave my beachy island life in Okinawa. After an amazingly restful 2 weeks in Southern California with my in-laws, we headed to Germany. We’ve been here almost a month. I love it. It is never easy to move to a new country and especially with the recent attacks in Europe, at times I feel vulnerable here. But change is good. Stagnation is awful. I’m here and determined to make this an amazing experience for my family and me. I’m glad you can share the ride through social media. 😘

Today, I checked our APO box on base. I found a lovely card from my aunt, a postcard from our wireless carrier, and a… subpoena? My heart was pounding as I opened the envelope and found out I was to be on standby for a subpoena in Broward County, Florida, between the dates of June 6 and June 17 for a trial for the charge of second-degree murder. As soon as I saw the name on the case, all the feelings rushed back. All the feelings I had pushed down five years ago. That experience had been compartmentalized and repressed and stowed away in a neat little place where it couldn’t bother me or touch me in my current happy life as a wife and mama. It’s one thing to bring trauma up of your volition in a therapeutic setting; it’s quite another to read a legal document that metaphorically kicks you in the gut and leaves you gasping for air on the ground, curled in the fetal position.

I am definitely not the first person in the world to witness another person’s life being taken from them. As the wife of an active-duty US military service member, I cannot imagine the horrors witnessed by our Soldiers, Airmen, Seamen, and Marines deployed to combat zones. But this was still something impossible for me, personally, to process.

Because of this glitch in my emotional processing ability, when this shit went down five years ago, I just kind of tucked it away. Five hours after the incident, I was clocking in for a Sunday morning shift at a bar on the intracoastal. I was super-tired and more than a bit hungover, but I worked my shift. Over the next few days, I saw the crime scene investigation trucks parked outside the bar where it happened, since I lived across the street. It made me feel panicky for some unexplicable reason. I was relieved once the tape was removed, and the cop cars left. The bar opened for business as usual. Everyone in our neighborhood was talking about it, and I had many friends that shared my same experience that early morning. Some of those friends were even hospitalized for injuries because of their heroic efforts. But I didn’t want to talk. Inquisitive customers would ask me about it while I was behind the bar at work, one block over from where it happened, and I would get pissed off and snap at them. I had no patience for chit-chat with people who I felt wanted to sensationalize and gossip about what was the loss of a life: sacred, sad, and far too soon.

Time heals all wounds, and certainly served all of us involved just as well as the adage promises. Life went on as before. As always, out of sight, out of mind; we all moved on. Unfortunately, this is the most common emotional survival technique in the bar scene in South Florida, because otherwise, there would be no coping with such rampant loss.

Back to present day, in which opening the subpoena was an emotional tasering. It jolted me out of my protected, happy little life 10,000 miles away from that bar and slingshotted me psychologically back in time, five years. Ultimately, I am glad Brian Krebs is finally being held responsible for his crime in court. I hope he is given the harshest sentence possible for this charge. I just know that my re-living this in my head today is just a minuscule fraction of the pain felt by Jimmy Pagano’s loved ones on a daily basis since he was killed; there is no way for them to so easily banish those feelings to an emotionally remote location as I did.

I am incredibly proud of myself for this blog post. It was not written without tears, but in writing about it, I do feel as though even if I didn’t completely open this specific box, maybe I was able to peel back the wrapping just a bit.

– sending your fur babies to stay with friends for a couple weeks, missing them so much it hurts, worrying that they think you gave them away, trying to tell your toddler where they are, and wondering if she gets it

– living out of a suitcase and knowing that’ll be life for a month or more

– watching the immense stress your serviceman of a husband is under trying to get everything done

– paying $3,000 just to get the pets to Los Angeles, never mind Germany

– feeling the sadness of saying goodbye to the island where your life started to come together… Engaged… Kitten… Married… Puppy… Pregnant… Baby, now Toddler. So many feelings

– distancing from friends so it’s not a sad, emotional goodbye, cause let’s be fucking real; it is NOT a “see you later.” <insert eye roll, repeat>

– trying to be gentle with your teething toddler who is so damn resilient, but also just so damn clingy

– hanging in there. Keeping on. Being strong. Smiling. ‘Cause that’s what we do. Countless women have done this with their families and pets. I can do it. I will do it.

Much love to my ladies who are boarding my Fenway and Beedoo. Thanks to everyone who’s made time to see us and offer best wishes for our next chapter. Thanks to my husband… for giving us a good life and keeping Addy with her fur-siblings. ❤️

There’s really nothing like my baby girl in the morning. She wakes up a little foggy these days, nurses a little bit, and lays back down with me for a few minutes. Once she wakes up all the way, she gives me the biggest smile and usually says, “What!” She’s just so amazed for another day of this beautiful life. I say good morning, ohayogoazaimasu, and guten morgen to her, and we have a big hug and a kiss. I give her a clean diaper, and we head downstairs. It’s so funny to watch her stand up and “find her legs” after first waking up. I let the dog outside, while I go to the kitchen to start my coffee. She always waits at the window and watches him sniff around the yard, usually tapping on the glass and yelling directions. I put on music for her, and she really likes the song, “Happy,” by Pharrell, bobbing her head and stamping one foot. Her transition from baby to toddler is complete. As I’m sitting at the kitchen table typing this, I see her over in the living room, standing on top of a tupperware storage container, arms outstretched, bopping along to Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours.” She catches my eye, and pulls up her pajama top to show me her belly button. She’s just EVERYTHING. Good morning, we’re gonna have a good day.

For being such a cool kid when I met you at a BBQ, you were wicked pregnant, with a crazy tiny MOB running around and a super energetic JZ bopping about. You ate a cheeseburger with no bun, and I swear you winked when you said you didn’t eat gluten.

For meeting me at Torii pool when Harry was only 2 months old and MOB was starting to be a serious terrorist. For listening to my silly early pregnancy concerns. For showing me it was possible to wrangle children and strollers and bags and towels and still portray yourself as being in control. For not giving a fuck and just sitting on the step of the van and nursing Harry like a boss in the parking lot. #normalizebreastfeeding

For answering my Facebook messages and questions about pregnancy, even when it involved me revealing too much information. Questions about boobs, and vaginas, and things of that nature.

For letting me hold and cuddle the squishy Harry and take pictures of him.

For listening to me bitch and moan about how I didn’t feel well and wasn’t having a glowing pregnancy. For helping me not to give a fuck and trust that the mommy instinct would kick in and I’d love my baby. Oh, man, did it.

For always taking me seriously, even when I asked you if you thought 6 pairs of nursing pads were enough to pack in my hospital overnight bag.

For the homemade candy, cookies, peppermint lip gloss, and candied nuts at Christmas.

For hating baby showers, but attending mine because you liked me that much. And bringing a Harry along.

For visiting me in the hospital after I had AK. For bringing me chocolate covered strawberries. For the homemade lotion bars. For letting Harry be the first baby that AK ever met. For knowing that 15 min is the perfect length of time to visit a mama and day-old baby.

For coffee at your house, anytime I wanted to come by. For letting my kid be friends with your kids.

For not judging me when I said I was only having one baby.

For being a good baker of all things delicious and wheat-free.

For the coffee.

For liking my Instagram posts. For understanding the the imagination that goes into Little Girls of Anarchy. For telling me I was a bad ass for doing a cartwheel at 9 months pregnant.

For all the time and messages (on a goddamn broken screen iphone) over the time we’ve been friends: consoling, complaining, validating, being clever, communicating through Facebook stickers.

For cutting my hair and for fixing AK’s when I cut hers.

For our matching wave tattoos. For understanding the therapeutic value of clear water and the sound of the surf.

Did I mention coffee?

For being quite possibly the most bad ass mofo of a mama I’ve ever met.

For not crying when we said goodbye. And not judging me for blubbering.

I miss you, friend, so much. Oki isn’t the same without you, but I’ll see you soon. xoxo